


What's Yours Is Hers

by lightsway



Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Blood, Gen, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 16:38:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11718303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightsway/pseuds/lightsway
Summary: Takes place after The Twisted Ones. Charlie is faced with the reality of William Afton's change, and the implications of everything he told her about Sammy. Mild violence, not as bad as what the warning indicates, but some violence.





	What's Yours Is Hers

**Author's Note:**

> My initial theory for the end of Twisted Ones was that an endoskeleton was stuffed into the Charlie meatsuit, much like what happens at the end of Sister Location. But then I thought, maybe Sammy wasn't her twin brother, but her twin sister, and Charlie's being held captive by Springtrap while Sammy's out parading as Charlie.
> 
> I've probably missed some details from Silver Eyes since it's been a while, but here's something I dashed out after finishing Twisted ones, during my devastation that the third book isn't already out.
> 
> Uh. Anyway, here's Wonderwall.

Consciousness is slow to reach her, slow to thread through the haze of sleep keeping the inevitable pain at bay. For a long while, she doesn’t remember what happened, and there’s a part of her that wants to hide away in that bliss forever. No remembering. No thinking. No crumbling buildings or twisted Freddy or the grasp of John’s hand ripped violently away before losing consciousness. Just slow, even breaths against her lips, the weight of heavy eyelids, the comfort of being buried deep in her own mind.

It’s warm here, wherever she is. It envelops her, keeps her close. Safe.

No, that doesn’t sound right. _Safe_? A thought pulls at the edge of her mind and tries to remind her of screeching metal and hordes of plastic children with balloons; of a man fused with an animatronic, and of being trapped within the confines of a springtrapped suit. But she doesn’t _want_ to remember. A soft whimper of defiance falls from bruised lips and she tries to push it all away again, tucking her chin a little closer against her shoulder. She tries to ignore the shooting pain in her ribs forcing its way past her willful ignorance and reminding her that it isn’t okay.

Safe? She isn’t safe.

She hasn’t been safe in days. Months, a year, since Sammy was taken from her. Maybe even before then. Has she ever really been safe? Or has her life been spent perpetually on the edge of danger and pain and losing everything she’s come to know and love?

 _No_. She screws her eyes shut and clenches her teeth as best they can against the creeping thoughts pressing closer, _closer_ , reminding her of the discomfort in her body. There is no warmth, she just can’t feel her arms. Shallow breathing keeps her ribs from aching. Being motionless means being warm. But she isn’t _safe_.

It’s a struggle to want to pull herself from the encapsulating feeling of being disconnected from a world that’s broken her down. For the first time in what’s felt like forever, the exhaustion feels like relaxation. Like she’s untouchable. Her mind has found an escape in what defense she has against the pain, and she tries valiantly to dig deeper into it and hide herself. But even her mind isn’t the safe place she wants it to be, and another shift of her head and a deep breath are all it takes for the stabbing in her ribs to remind her that _she isn’t safe_.

Eyelids flutter against the intoxicating heaviness inviting her to keep them closed. John isn’t here. She remembers gripping his hand and begging him not to leave her. She remembers Jessica’s distressed cries, and Clay on the verge of not knowing what to do, where to go, how to help.

And then she remembers nothing. Pain and darkness swallowing her whole until now, where the throbbing in her head is so deep and overlapping that it feels like a pillow smothering her brain. “ _No_ ,” she breathes, and the word is so gentle, so lost in an exhale, that it’s barely spoken at all. Tears sting her eyes and it’s all she can do not to sob out loud as the fog slowly fades from her mind and she has no choice but to remember _everything_. Sweet, sweet bliss, lost to the onslaught of reality, and she blinks and forces her eyes open.

It’s dim, and she can’t see far, but she can sense that someone is there. “Sammy?” she asks, her voice hoarse and unfamiliar, and even just the one word has her wincing. Whatever happened inside of that suit, it did more damage than she realized. Probably unsurprising, considering the rows of spikes and springlocks lining the interior of the suit. She manages a shallow cough to try and clear her throat, but it doesn’t work. Her eyes sting and her body trembles. “S-Sammy?” But she knows it isn’t her twin. This presence is cold and doesn’t feel familiar in the way Sammy does.

The hollow laugh that follows her question affirms her gut feeling: this _definitely_ isn’t Sammy.

It’s Springtrap.

“Afton,” she coughs, and she has to clench her teeth to keep her body from shuddering.

“Springtrap,” he corrects, stepping into view. There’s so little light to see by, but his discolored skin and dark eyes are stark in her vision. He’s disgusting, a monster on the outside now to mirror his soul. As he walks, his steps are disjointed, the metal embedded in his skin and the limbs replaced with the golden suit making him awkward as he presses closer, closer than she likes, closer than she wants.

“Where’s Sammy?”

He laughs again and leans in close, until she can feel his breath on her face. But he doesn’t say anything. It’s infuriating, and she wants to bash his head against the ground again until he gives her answers, but as she moves, tries to lean, tries to swing her arm around, he _tsks_ and shakes his head. “I wouldn’t, if I were you.” The quick jerk of his head looks unnatural, but she realizes what he wants. She turns her head slightly to the side and realizes: The warmth she felt wasn’t from the comfort of sleep. It’s because she’s tucked into one of the suits Afton designed. The head is removed and the chestplate is open, but her arms and legs are stuck in the limbs of the suit. One wrong move, and she’s as dead as Afton should’ve been last year.

She tries to give her fingers an experimental stretch. Left, good. Some pain, some tingling, but good. Right? ….no response. She dares to look at her right arm and barely sees through the darkness inside the suit massive amounts of bruising and swelling and dried blood coating the sleeve. She remembers John holding that hand, and she wants to clench her fingers instinctively, as if able to grasp some memory of that, but she dares not move her hand. Her eyes move back to Afton’s, and the familiar fire that fuels her anger makes her jaw clench as she forces herself to breathe steady. Shallow and steady. As little pain as possible, as much control as she can muster.

“Where is he?” she asks again, but he hasn’t answered her questions before, why would he answer them now? He holds the power, he has her where he wants her – and whatever it is of his she has, he can get it. He doesn’t have to answer her. Villains in bad superhero movies monologue and tell their plan in full detail. But this man is a monster in real life, not some movie or book.

“Your first mistake,” he says, his lips twisting into what might’ve been a grin. “You should be asking, ‘Where is _she’_.”

For a long moment, Charlie is confused. _She_? Charlie licks her lips, feels how torn they are. She tastes dried blood on them. “Sammy…is my twin… _sister_?”

“Surprise.” Afton laughs, and his breath is putrid, makes her gag. She nearly leans forward to vomit, but there’s nothing in her stomach, and one wrong twist in this suit would have metal tearing into her flesh, rendering her in pieces. “Sammy is out playing pretend.”

Charlie barely dares to breathe. After so long of waiting for answers and being denied, he’s given her _something_ to cling to. She has a _sister_ , not a brother, and Sammy is…what? She wants to demand he explain, but she’s terrified of him realizing just how desperate she is to know and then laughing and keeping it all to himself. He seems to delight in making her suffer, and keeping her from knowing is the ultimate torture. He can snap locks into her skin and send his twisted animatronics after her all day, but she would feel sated if she could just get answers.

“She’s always wanted to know what it’s like to live a normal life outside. Asked what high school was like, what people did with their friends, were concerts fun. All the shit that people think makes a life ‘living’, when it’s nothing but redundancy in the guise of being alive.”

He leans in closer, and she wants to pull away, but she’s paralyzed inside the suit. One wrong move…only one wrong move, and she’s more trapped than she is now. She tries again to clench her right hand, but there’s no response. Only pain.

“But you and I,” he breathes against her ear, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to recoil in horror. The tears burning her eyes spill down her cheeks, her stomach clenches, and everything is wrong, wrong, _wrong_. “We know what life really is.”

_Rectangles and doors and John’s smile and the bounce in Jessica’s step and everything that’s even remotely been a happy place for her, anything, anything-_

She feels a brush of something against her side – his hand, she realizes – and then a sharp pain and the fresh warmth of blood. She cries out, then clenches her teeth to stifle the sound, and he’s laughing again, lips close to her cheek, and she wants to vomit but all she can do is cry.

“Sammy gets to be Charlie for a while,” he whispers.

The pain is intense, more so than anything she’s felt before, and even through it, she knows what he’s saying. Sammy is her _twin_. Sammy could pass herself off as Charlie. Maybe not to Charlie’s friends, but under scrutiny from acquaintances? Classmates? People she just passes by between classes?

Afton pulls back enough to grin at Charlie, a Cheshire grin exposing rotted teeth.

Did Sammy go through this same kind of pain at Afton’s hands? Is she scarred like him? Or did he care for her as if she were his own? She hopes Sammy has a good life pretending to be Charlie. She hopes she isn’t doing something at Afton’s behest. Mostly, she hopes Sammy is her own person, even if she has to pretend to be Charlie to get it.

_Please don’t hurt her._

She doesn’t say it aloud. Won’t give Afton any more ideas than his twisted mind already has. But she hopes for it as much as her pain-dazed mind allows.

“And you, Charlie,” he says, his face a blur through her tears. His hand is at her other side, and she braces for what she knows is coming. “Get to be Sammy.”


End file.
